


Loud

by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays



Series: Suffocated and Isolated: the Recovery [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Crying, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Injury, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Self-Harm, Sensory Overload, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Triggering shit here’s yall, Whump, aunt may - Freeform, watch out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-08-26 21:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16689370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays/pseuds/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays
Summary: Peter has his first sensory overload in his new home. It goes worse than you’d expect.WORK IS PART OF A SERIES. I RECOMMEND YOU READ THE ORIGINAL WORK FIRST BUT FOR THIS ONE IT DOESNT MATTER SO MUCH.





	1. Chapter 1

Peter Parker hated his fucking powers.

 

They were super helpful, climbing on walls and all, but whenever his sticky fingers attached to the floor or his spider sense told him he was going to die because of an incoming frisbee, he wasn’t the biggest fan.

 

This, of course, was a bit more serious than those cases.

 

Peter was having another talk with Sam. They were getting pretty frequent at this point and Peter was almost starting to wonder whether there was a schedule. He didn’t really mind though; Sam never forced him to talk and never treated him differently when he was told the newest Trauma Of The Week.

 

So why wouldn’t that be the time everything slowly started to crush him?

 

It started slowly. A few minutes after Sam had come into Peter’s still sparsely decorated room, he felt a flare in his spider sense and a tensing of his muscles that he couldn’t relax. He kept talking, Sure it was just another random bout of anxiety. Then it got worse. The tingle at the base of his neck became an ache, then a scream, and it soon filled up his stomach and fingertips until he was forcing our little grunts in reply to Sam and tearing his muscles himself in an effort not to rock back and forth while his hands curled into fists.

 

The fluorescent lights were so bright. The sounds of everything around him—the air conditioning, laughter throughout the building, the whispers of pedestrians two streets away and hundreds of yards below—were so loud. His soft cotton clothes felt like sandpaper on skin of tissue. He smelled gas from the subways underground. All of these sensations, the feelings of an entire city, were attacking him at once.

 

A pained groan must have escaped him because he felt Sam’s gentle hand on his arm and jumped away like it had burned him.

 

”Peter?” His name sounded distant and echoed, yet it scraped his eardrums as if it were a scream from within his own head.

 

Peter kept his eyes squeezed shut as if it would help. Trying to keep his words from shaking, he all but whispered, “Sam, please let go and—“ a gasp as someone slammed a door on fourth avenue, “—and get out.” Even saying the words grated on his throat and shook his skull.

 

The hand didn’t move, And much to Peter’s dismay, the echo-scream Of Sam’s voice started up again.

 

”Peter, are you alright?”

 

Peter felt the blood begin to form beads on his palms and tried to lessen the pressure of his nails into the long-known scars.

 

Fuck being nice. This hurt too much.

 

Peter, breathing heavily, forced out, “Sam, If you don’t let go of me and get out  _right fucking now_ I’m going to break your arm.”

 

He could practically feel Sam’s eyes widen. “Kid, what—“

 

Peter was sure he yelled, “Get out!” But it came out more as a wheeze. Luckily, though, Sam complied. At least he thought so. He heard footsteps loud as cannons and the burning on his arm cooled.

 

Once he heard he bedroom door click like a gunshot among the cacophany Of explosions around him, he whispered, “F-Friday, please...” he trailed off with a weak groan when Natasha dropped a weapon in the training room.

 

”Yes, Peter?” Her robotic voice boomed. Peter groaned again and felt a tear slide down his cheek and onto the bedspread. He didn’t know when he had curled onto his side but the fabric on his cheek felt like knives.

 

”Turn the Tower off,” he whispered. He had no other way to describe what he wanted to happen. He just wanted everything  _off_.

 

”Off?” She repeated, so loud that Peter let out a sob.

 

”The—the air conditioning, the lights, the people, turn it  _off_ ,” he cried.

 

She seemed to get he message and was thankfully near silent when she asked, “I cannot do this without Mr. Stark’s authorization. Would you like me to ask him?”

 

Peter prayed he would pass out. That was what happened to people in movies, right? They passed out when the pain got to be too much to bear?

 

He released a shuddering breath that broke into another sob and replied, “Tell him—“ an inhuman noise of agony as two cars began a honking match on Broadway, “—tell him...eleven.”

 

Peter hoped Tony would get the message, remember the conversation they had on the day they met and turn everything off. 

 

Friday gave a quick, “Okay,” and signed off, leaving Peter alone with the sounds of every being in the universe.

 

He almost screamed when he heard Tony sharply drop the tool he was holding and stand up, but could have sobbed with relief when everything in the tower slowly eased into silence and darkness. By now Peter’s face was buried in his quilt that was soaked with tears and felt as though it was tearing the skin off of his skull.

 

The relief was short-lived, though, because Peter soon realized something much worse.

 

 _He could feel his organs moving_.

 

When his door swung open on its hinges and some concerned God seemed to scream, “Peter!” He finally fell into dark oblivion.

 

——

 

Peter came to in the sweet, sweet darkness of night. He slowly sat up and blinked, trying to gather what had happened before.

 

”Feeling better, Peter?” Friday asked, still barely a whisper.

 

”Uh—Uh, Yeah, Fri. You can go back to normal, now.” His voice was scratchy and worn and his throat felt raw.

 

”Certainly,” she replied. 

 

Peter nodded, shook out his sore limbs, and stood up, thankful he didn’t fall back down. “Okay,” he muttered to himself.

 

When he saw some odd panels covering his walls, though, he stopped. They looked rubbery and were full of holes, but in the darkness he couldn’t make out what they were. Luckily, Friday beat him to it.

 

”Boss has installed Naptime Proticol in me. If you ever go into sensory overload again, I am instructed to turn off every facility in the building and activate those sound absorbers. I will also inform every person in the building to stop talking and blackout your windows.”

 

Peter nodded to himself. “Neat.” A pause. “Can I—Uh, can I go thank Tony?”

 

Friday seemed remorseful as she replied, “I’m sorry Peter, but Boss is currently asleep. As he has not rested in over thirty six hours I highly recommend not disturbing him. I will inform you when he awakes, though.”

 

Peter’s shoulders sagged a bit. “Oh. Okay.”

 

”Peter, you seem disappointed. Is there anything else I can do?”

 

Peter thought to himself. He had never had a sensory episode so bad before, and certainly never in front of anyone. He suspected that May had walked in on his latest one, back when she was—

 

When she was there.

 

But he couldn’t be sure. He hardly remembered it anyways.

 

He chewed on his lip, straightened up, and said confidently, “Yeah, actually. Can you tell me where Sam is? I need to apologize.”

 

Peter could almost hear a smile in Friday’s cold tone as she affirmed, “Certainly.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I’d add another chapter from Tony’s perspective. Have fun

Tony tapped his foot along to the tune of the no doubt uncool rock song he was listening too, screws between his lips, bolts balanced on his elbow, and a wrench in his hands, which were trying to find a way to add more ammunition to he Iron Patriot while slimming it down for maximum speed.

 

Here he could forget about how much he was failing at being Peter’s guardian and how many threats were waiting just beyond the atmosphere to come and cut him out of his own life. It all just melted away into the smell of oil, the feeling of a tool in his hand, and the sound of loud pounding mixing with his constantly blaring music. Here, he could just create and break and remodel and start it all over again.

 

So he was reasonably upset whenever he was interrupted. 

 

He was tightening the bolt on the most fragile frame when FRIDAY shut off his music and said, at the lowest possible volume, “Boss, I have been asked to ‘turn the tower off,’ but I need your authorization first.”

 

Tony jumped and shattered the entire sheet. He cursed under his breath and, removing the screws from his mouth, replied with a scoff, “Turn it off? The hell does that mean? And, why are you so quiet?” He added that on as an afterthought, then turned back to his work.

 

Without changing her volume, FRIDAY explained, “Peter Parker has asked me to turn my volume down. He also said to tell you ‘eleven.’” 

 

Tony felt a spike of cold fear like he did whenever someone mentioned Peter’s name in any context other than pride. But when FRIDAY continued, he practically shot up from his chair, his wrench clattering to the ground. 

 

“How bad is it?” Tony didn’t need to clarify what.

 

”Mr. Parker is in extreme distress. I believe he is experiencing an extreme sensory overload.”

 

Tony swore again. Running an oily hand through his even more oily hair, he said, “Uh, okay, do it then. Turn everything off. Make sure everyone knows to stop what they’re doing.” He wasn’t sure of the extent of Peter’s hearing, but if the ferry incident was anything to go by, he could hear just about everything in the tower. Tony shuddered at the thought of him being able to hear even further.

 

FRIDAY signed off without a response, and Tony Immediatly started running to Peter’s room, praying to whatever malicious god was up there that he’d find him there. Around him, the air conditioning and lights all shut down and he felt his world fall into silence. He paused for a second at the fork between the elevator and the staircases.

 

Would he rather risk setting off Peter’s hearing again with the whir of an elevator or climb fourty-seven flights of stairs?

 

He started climbing.

 

The whole way up he was worrying what could be happening. Could Peter be really hurt? Could he be dying? Oh, god, it was taking so long to reach him, what if something happened before he could make it up?

 

He was hardly taking in any breath by the time he reached Peter’s room. He was sure he passed a very confused Sam at one point, but didn’t bother interacting.

 

He calmed his breathing, then cracked open the door as slowly as possible. He heard soft whining and moaning coming from the room, and whispered, “Peter?”

 

The sounds stopped.

 

He finally gave up and threw the door open and was faced with Peter, a child,  _his_ child, laying limp on his bedspread. The room was nearly pitch black, but from the slivers of light escaping the curtains, he could see tears shining on Peter’s face and a dark liquid dripping from his ears that made his stomach churn. Even in sleep, his face was contorted in pain. And Jesus Christ, he was so unbelievably  _small_.

 

He was locked in horror for almost three seconds, the longest of his life, and ran back to where he thought he saw Sam. Luckily, he was right.

 

”Sam!” He breathed, resting his hands on his knees. Sam, who was sitting on the floor and staring off into space, snapped his head up. He seemed to gain a bit of clarity.

 

”What? Is it Peter? Is he alright?”

 

Tony ignored his questions. He’d have time later. “Sam,” he repeated, “Should you move someone in extreme sensory overload?” He stumbled over some of FRIDAY’s clunky words.

 

Sam blinked and shook his head, as if he were trying to dislodge a thought from his brain. “Uh, no, I don’t think. Touching them would make it a lot worse. It would feel like sandpaper, I think. I don’t know, that’s more physical brain stuff.”

 

Tony began to shake his leg and bit his lip. “Dammit,” he whispered. Peter was suffering and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

Well, actually...

 

”Sam, get me tools from my workshop. Bring every silencer you can find.”

 

And he jogged off. Sam threw up his arms, calling after him, “Which tools?” But got no reply.

 

”Okay,” he sighed, shook his head, and started walking.

 

——

 

Tony just about fell into his chair and immediately began typing up a few simple codes. Ones that would, when anyone in the Tower said, “Activate Naptime Protocol,” would shut down and silence everything in the tower. Easy.

 

Nearly ten minutes later, which was far too long, he began the long journey back upstairs. He wished he could slow down some—he knew Peter was passed out—but couldn’t calm the panic in his bones.

 

He almost fell over a huge pile of tools and metal. He looked up with his jaw hanging open and was met with Sam’s exasperated face.

 

”What?” He asked incredulously. “You didn’t say which tools. I just brought them all.”

 

Tony took a long breath and blinked hard. He could mock Sam later. He had something to do.

 

”Okay, well, that’s fine. Grab all the drills, silencers, and that weird pile of rubber from the training room and meet me in Peter’s room. Be as quiet as possible.”

 

And, once again, he left without explaining anything more.

 

For the next three hours, he and Sam spent ten minutes on every single screw, trying to install the sound absorbers as quietly as possible. He wanted to clean the now-dried blood off of Peter’s face, but knew that any touch would only multiply onto his pain.

 

Then finally, with one last woeful look to Peter’s lax face, he shut the door.

 

Not thirty seconds later, he collapsed onto the first bed he found.


End file.
